


Revelations

by Mohini



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Graphic Depictions of Illness, M/M, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 22:45:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7659814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mohini/pseuds/Mohini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Confronting Steve is a definite nope. The man will be defensive at best, and nothing good is going to come of it. Better to continue on as they were, pretend he doesn’t know that something is very wrong here, and try to figure out some way to make it better without Steve knowing he knows. This, he’s fairly certain, is going to suck in a tremendous way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s Kono who notices it first. She shrugs it off, telling herself that if Steve wanted to say something, he would, and that if he’s got a touch of vomit on his breath, that it’s most likely the remnants of a hangover he’s too damn SEAL proud to admit to. She keeps an eye on him that day, watching to make sure he’s alright, since it’s no secret that he can’t be trusted with his own safety. For good measure, she mentions it to Danny, since he’s the only one of them with a prayer of getting past Steve’s defenses if he actually needs someone taking care of him.

Chin walks into the men’s room once to the sound of choking coughs and retching, knocking on the partition door when the sounds ease up into measured breathing. “You alright in there, boss?”

“Yeah, m’good now, brah,” comes the response, voice a little on the raw and trembling side but it’s not like their diets are exactly healthy and Steve’s been out in the heat all day. He’s pretty sure that every cop on the island spends at least one afternoon out of any given month regretting something eaten on the job. It doesn’t stop him from shooting a text to Danny, just to have some extra eyes on their resident SuperSEAL and his not quite so indestructible as he thinks it is self.

They’re out for drinks after a case that should have been a lot easier than it was when Steve disappears. Danny makes his excuses to the rest of the crew and finds the other man outside the bar, arms braced against a wall in an alley, seriously, man, a fucking alley, as he unloads what were apparently more drinks than he should have had. Some small part of Danny’s brain is shooting off warning bells, since he’s not more than buzzed himself and Steve is a fucking mountain worth of SEAL and has a tolerance that could kill most people. When Steve straightens up and turns around, it’s with a nonchalant roll of his eyes and an excuse that he might have forgotten about lunch today. Those warning bells are now sounding like fucking gongs because he’s heard that one before, from an old college girlfriend and it sure as hell wasn’t the truth back then. But this is Steve, so he shoves the thought down and offers him a shoulder to hold onto as they make their way to Danny’s car and out to the house on the beach where Steve lives with the ghosts of his past.

Danny watches him after that, not purposefully, exactly, but enough to know that quite a few things aren’t adding up the way they should. Steve exercises more than any normal person. Danny blames it on too many years as a SEAL, but damn, no one should spend that much time running in this kind of heat. He keeps a close eye on the way his not remotely professional clothes fit him, and when he doesn’t notice any sort of weight loss, he puts it out of his mind. Steve is insane, but there’s nothing to worry about here. He’s just an idiot Navy man and some people must be immune to the damn heat on this godforsaken pineapple ridden hellhole.

It’s after the business with Wo Fat and the whole North Korea disaster that Danny starts noticing that Steve doesn’t join in with everyone else when they order too much deep fried insanity. He passes on the malasadas that Chin brings in with coffee. He looks tired, eyes a little shadowed, and his lips perpetually chapped, as though he’s spending a lot of time biting them. Danny starts making a habit of offering him extra cups of coffee, bringing in fruit and raw vegetables that he knows the man will consume. When they’re out of the office, he makes a point of stopping at places he knows offer foods that aren’t deep fried or loaded with sugar. He’s been undercover. He’s been part of operations that have gone badly. He knows full well the tricks that stress and guilt can play on a stomach and if Steve’s having a little trouble right now, it’s normal and he might as well do what he can to help the gorilla deal with it.

They’ve been living together four months the first time he walks into the house after dropping Gracie back at step-Stan’s to find the bathroom door closed and the sounds of vomiting echoing through the house. The idiot’s locked the door and it takes all of his self control not to kick the thing down when he hears Steve take a breath that sounds almost like a sob before the retching resumes. “Steven! Dammit, open this fucking door or I swear to…”

The door opens to an ashen faced Steve with tears and snot all over his face. Danny cleans him up, sits with him on the floor of the too small bathroom until his stomach settles even though Steve insists that he’ll be fine on his own. When the other man crouches over the toilet with his head practically in it while he pukes, Danny rubs his shoulders and yet again tries not to hear the gongs that tell him Steve was fine an hour ago. Stomach bugs hit like that, he tells himself. Besides, it’s not like the man’s putting his fingers down his throat or anything.

A year into this whatever it is between them and Danny wakes up to cold sheets and a light in the hallway from the bathroom door. Steve is on the toilet, a trash can in his arms as he shivers miserably and sweat pours off him. They had spent the evening at a barbecue, both of them putting away their weight in smoked meat and all the traditional accompaniments. It’s not the first time Steve’s been sick after one, and it’s something of a joke that the man’s only weakness is his stomach. Danny wets a cloth at the sink, draping it over Steve’s neck before dampening a second one to wipe down his face and shoulders. He goes to the kitchen, grabs a bottle of sports drink from the fridge, and brings it back to the bathroom, putting it on the counter within reach. Steve thanks him and apologizes quietly for waking him and tells him to go back to bed, that he’ll be alright on his own. Danny ignores him, sitting on the edge of the tub and rubbing his back while his body tries to empty itself in all directions at once for the next several hours. It’s nearing dawn when he is able to lead a shaky, weak Steve back to bed.

Danny wakes to light in his eyes and Steve sound asleep beside him. The man’s arms are wrapped around his gut, and he is curled into a ball. Danny eases him into a less constricted position, goes to the kitchen to warm up a heat pack they keep around for the many times it becomes necessary in their line of work, and carefully wedges the heat pack between Steve’s clenched arms and his gut. The lines of pain on the other man’s face gradually ease, and Danny tugs a sheet up and over him before leaving the room to let him rest.

The kitchen trash bin is in need of emptying and he pulls out the bag and hefts it out the door. He’s slinging it into the outdoor container when the plastic gives, spreading the contents across the stones that line the little corral where they keep the bins. He curses and sets to work picking up the scattered mess when a couple shreds of cardboard catch his attention. Those old, familiar gongs of warning shoot upward in pitch and now he’s got a goddamned siren going off in his head because he knows what this is and dammit, how many times has this happened in the last year without him ever connecting these suddenly very clear dots.

He sits at the kitchen table for hours, nursing cups of coffee and trying to talk himself out of what is much too obvious to be argued with now that he’s putting it all together and looking at it. Steve doesn’t fit the stereotypes. Not even a little bit. He’s anything but thin, powerfully built and always too energetic for anyone’s good. He doesn’t eat much in the way of junk, but he’s a cop. Most men in the profession go one of two directions – pot belly or exercise freak. Come to think about it, Steve is firmly entrenched in the exercise maniac camp. He runs every day, rain or god awful heat be damned. He swims most days, unless there is no denying that a riptide is going to drag him out to sea and kill his idiotic self if he even tries it during the worse storms. But he’s far from the only cop, especially the ex-military types, that Danny knows who act exactly the same way. Exercise is their drug of choice, and really, it’s a fairly safe one when you get down to it. What Danny can’t get past, though, is that now he’s thinking about it, Steve has been sick after each and every barbecue they’ve attended for months. It had gotten to the point that he pretty well expects it. Having seen the bits of cardboard this morning, though, he is pretty sure he understands why now.

Confronting Steve is a definite nope. The man will be defensive at best, and nothing good is going to come of it. Better to continue on as they were, pretend he doesn’t know that something is very wrong here, and try to figure out some way to make it better without Steve knowing he knows. This, he’s fairly certain, is going to suck in a tremendous way.

It’s mid-afternoon when Steve finally emerges from the bedroom, looking pale and sick. Danny wants to be angry. He knows this is a result of the pills Steve took last night, but he can’t bring himself to not lead the pitiful man to the couch, ply him with peppermint and ginger teas, and let Steve rest his head against his shoulder as he dozes in and out while they watch crap television. Steve’s still running for the bathroom entirely too often, and it’s obvious he’s in pain. He’s shaking even in sleep, and when he goes racing to the bathroom for the umpteenth time, Danny Googles laxative overdose and wars with his own good sense about the brilliance of not hauling his miserable partner to someone with MD after their name. Instead, Danny rewarms the heat pack and holds it for him and quietly suggests that maybe they should say no to the next barbecue invite. Steve’s so out of it that he nods his agreement, whispering that he hates this and apologizing for being a burden.

It’s not the first time Danny’s wanted to resurrect the man’s father to kill him for the way Steve feels so unworthy of being cared for. It is the first time he wants to shake his other half and tell him to stop hurting himself. Instead, he kisses his cheek and tells him it’s alright, that he’ll feel better in the morning. They sleep that night with Steve’s head pillowed against Danny’s chest. The cramps and frequent bathroom trips last a solid two days, during which Steve has a hard time holding down much of anything beyond water or tea. Danny calls them both off work the Monday after, and they stay in the bed and sleep through most of it.

It doesn’t happen again for a long time after that. More than a year passes without any more violent illnesses after foods that Steve is apparently unwilling to digest. Danny figures Steve might have actually scared himself. It’s not that they don’t go out with the team. They do, but Steve takes tiny portions of the richer foods, and Danny jokingly eats most of those for him. Steve doesn’t say anything, but he smiles at him with that very sad smile each time. He’s not sure if Steve is aware he knows what is actually going on, but he’s certain he’s figured out that Danny knows the rich island specialties don’t sit well with him.

They’re in Jersey, and they’ve barely walked back into the hotel room they’re staying in much to Danny’s mother’s annoyance when the carefully choreographed dance goes to hell. Steve informs him he’s going to take a shower before they turn in. It’s definitely not the best thing Danny’s heard in a while, because he’s pretty sure that showering isn’t the first thing on Steve’s agenda. Danny specifically booked a place with a treadmill and a couple sets of weights masquerading as a gym, because it’s December and there’s snow on the ground and even though Steve runs in all manner of horror in Hawaii, apparently snow is a deal breaker. The workout facility, however, is currently sporting an out of order sign and Danny knows that Steve probably ate a fair bit more of the frankly unholy portion his mom tried to feed him than he would have if he’d known there wasn’t a way to burn it off.

It’s against his better judgment, but Danny makes an excuse about having left something in the car and books it out of the room. He comes back ten minutes later to find Steve still in the bathroom. The shower’s running, and Danny decides to wait for Steve to come back out rather than risk any unfortunate interruptions. When the king of the Navy 3 minute shower hasn’t emerged ten minutes later, though, he decides that action is necessary. “Babe?” he calls out, hoping he’s done and just hasn’t made it back out. When he doesn’t get an answer, he opens the door and there’s Steve, naked as the day he was born, braced against the toilet and bent double at the waist. One hand is shoved into his mouth and he’s gagging, which is eerily quiet despite the violent clenching of his gut. He startles when Danny’s shoe squeaks against the tile, but it’s too late. He’s already gotten started and it looks like his stomach’s been well trained to clear itself out once things get moving. The next several minutes are lost to Steve retching up his dinner. When his knees buckle and he hits the floor while he clutches the rim of the toilet, Danny shuts off the shower before he puts a hand on his back, keeping a soft pressure against his spine.

When it’s over, Steve wipes his mouth, rinses and spits with the cup of water Danny offers, and turns to him with tears shining in his eyes. Danny pulls him into a hug and leans down so he can whisper the words in his ear. “I’ll add Mom’s cooking to the list of things I’ll take off your plate for you,” he says. Steve stiffens up for a moment, then nods before the tears win and he’s sobbing in Danny’s arms.

“Shh, babe. I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” Danny tells him over and over until he’s wrung out and they’re both crying on the bathroom floor in a hotel in Jersey of all places.

“Talk to me, babe. Tell me what’s going on in that brain of yours,” he finally asks Steve when the other man has settled down and is still clinging tight but no longer crying against him.

“It’s not what you think,” Steve says finally.

“What do I think, then?”

“I’m not bulimic, Danno,” Steve protests.

“Semantics. Don’t lie to my face here, Steven. How often do you purge?”

“I’m not bulimic,” Steve insists again, and it’s clear he doesn’t know what to say or how to say it.

“Maybe not. But I think you wanted me to know something’s not right with you, no matter what label you want to slap on it. You were in here more than half an hour before I came in, babe,” Danny murmurs. “Pretty sure that’s not the way it works if you’re trying not to get caught.”

Steve stiffens in his arms, and he knows he’s gotten it right. He also knows he’s not going to get much more out of him before he shuts back down, so he goes at it with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. “Do you want me to stop you, babe? Cause I will if you want me to. I will always protect you from yourself if you ask me to. Got it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe,” Steve whispers, and Danny holds him tighter while the tremors that had been coursing through him step up their game into full on chills. He didn’t even know Steve could panic, but he definitely can and is apparently going to demonstrate the skill here and now.

“Babe, come on, breathe for me,” Danny coaxes when Steve’s chest stops moving and his heart starts racing harder. It’s the wrong command, because then Steve’s panting like he’s run a marathon and kept on going. It also becomes clear that the purging earlier didn’t quite clear him out, because he gives a hiccupping cough and wrenches himself away from Danny’s grip in time to vomit all over again. There’s not much of anything left but a bit of bile and spit, but it doesn’t stop him from dry heaving for ages.

Danny stands behind him, keeping a grip on his shoulders to keep him steady while he heaves over and over, completely out of control and shaking violently. When the worst of it passes, Danny leans over and turns the shower on, stripping out of his own clothes and pulling Steve in with him, holding him and washing him under the warm water while Steve stares blankly at him. It’s clear that he’s called on some kind of fabulous dissociation technique to pull himself back down from the panic attack, but Danny’s not sure which one is preferable.

Steve’s largely nonresponsive as he dries him off and dresses him in lightweight sleep clothes. He pulls him against his own body in the bed and repeats over and over the only words that don’t sound trite as hell. “I’ve got you, babe. I’ve got you.”

It’s a long night. Steve has always had nightmares. Danny has always held him through them, whispered comfort and love and reassurance until he settles back down. Tonight, he shakes and cries and buries himself against Danny’s chest and begs him not to leave, not to tell, not to make him stop. Danny would promise him the world and a shiny new pony to boot if he thought it might help. He doesn’t, but he promises it all anyway.

Morning finds them both with swollen eyes and exhausted bodies. Danny calls his parents and begs off the day’s visit citing jet lag and wraps a still distraught Steve in his arms again. It’s like this has finally broken him. Danny’s seen the man in better shape after flat out torture. He’s bouncing between a panicky, shocky mess and something akin to a fugue state. Neither is doing good things for Danny’s blood pressure. Finally, sometime around midday, Danny orders room service, since his stomach is starting to growl loudly enough for the neighbors to hear and he’s pretty sure Steve would benefit from something in his stomach as well.

He doesn’t expect the battle of wills it sets off. Steve pouts like a teenaged girl when presented with a salad that they both know he has no actual objections to and Danny tells him as much. “Stop it, Steven. Stop it. Right now. I’ve known you’re doing this to yourself for two fucking years, alright? Forget I said a goddamned word and let’s both go back to the happy little pile of lies we were rocking before last night. Got it? Stop this shit right the fuck now.”

All the fight and death glare goes out of his partner, and the man stares down at his hands. Steve is quiet, no tears, no yelling, just silent, broken man. Danny has never regretted opening a door more in his life.

“Steve. Steven. Babe. Do not do this. You do not get to shut the fuck down because you’re scared. Do you understand me? We will deal with this together, in whatever way you want to. Do you understand me?I need some participation here, babe. Yes or no?”

“You knew?” Steve finally says, and he looks defeated.

“Suspected. Why do you think I started mooching off your plate so damn much? If you don’t stuff yourself silly, we don’t spend the night with you suffering from a fucking laxative overdose. Ever wonder why exactly there is no junk food in the house? It’s not because I share your desire to eat clean. It’s because I fucking hate tasting vomit on your breath. Yes, I’ve known. Jesus. I’m a detective. It’s what I do!”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I wanted you to tell me when you were ready, which, if you might recall, I’m pretty sure you did, unless waiting in the bathroom until I was back before opting to press eject on dinner was somehow a stealth move I’m not familiar with.”

“I’m serious, Danno. I’m not bulimic. It’s not, like, a thing, you know? Just sometimes, I need it.”

“Mmhmm, so you’re not bulimic, you just occasionally need to stick your fingers down your throat or swallow a box worth of laxatives. Got it. And these occasions, how often are they, really? And please be honest here. Please.”

It takes a while before Steve comes up with the words to answer, and while he does, Danny pulls him up from the table and they curl up together on the bed, Steve in his arms even though it’s clear that he’s far too big to be the little spoon. Facing away, though, he manages to spit out the words.

“I vomit sometimes. It’s not something I’m very good at, and it hurts. I don’t like it and I try to avoid it. I’d rather run. The, um, the laxatives, I, fuck, I haven’t done that in a long time. Not since I overdid it and was sick for an entire weekend. You were there. I’m guessing you knew by then, huh?”

“Found the box the next morning, actually. Trash bag split down the side and out popped a whole lot of cardboard shreds, one of which had a very large ExLax label on it. You were so damn sick, though, it didn’t seem right to say anything so I didn’t,” Danny explains.

“Jesus. I remember that night, god, I don’t think I’ve ever been so sick. You sat up with me most of the night and I was so fucking embarrassed. I wanted to tell you, but I thought you’d kick my ass for being so stupid and I needed you too much to risk it.”

“I wanted to. Kick your ass, I mean. When I saw the box, or the remains of it, at least. I was totally ready to ream you for it when you woke up, but you were still a fucking mess and I couldn’t do it. Tried to head you off before you needed to invoke extreme measures instead.”

“I wondered why you started mooching off my plate at everything, but it was so much easier with you doing it that I never really wanted to break it. I feel like an idiot.”

“Tell me what else I can do? There’s got to be something else we need to do. This can’t be healthy, babe. It just can’t.”

“I, I don’t know if I can stop completely. Some things, they just don’t stay down. Even if I don’t force it. This is the most okay I’ve ever been.”

“So at one point you would have called it bulimia? Is that what you’re saying?” Danny pressed.

“Before the Navy. I, um, pretty much everything. All the time. I’m kind of shocked I never ruptured something, to be honest. Can’t do that during training. And I was running, and lifting, and so active that I would have keeled over so I quit. Just, watched what I put in and made sure I used up an equal number of calories. Oh, fuck, I do sound like a damn teenaged girl.”

“No. You sound like a damn strong man who got out of a really, really dangerous place.”

“Why are you being so good about this?”

“Maybe because I love you? Seriously, babe, everybody’s got a skeleton or twelve knocking around in the closet. This one’s yours. We’ll deal.”

Steve’s breathing hitches, and Danny tightens his arms around him, holding him tight and staying quiet while Steve cries himself out. It’s several years overdue, if they’re being honest. They haven’t resolved anything here. A problem that’s been around better than two decades isn’t going to be going anywhere anytime soon and he’s sure there will be plenty more discussions. For now, though, there’s only the gorilla of a man in his arms and the broken sobs that are shaking every inch of his body. Danny wants to roll him over, wants to smother the man against himself and kiss away the tears. But that’s not how you handle a shaking, bawling, Navy SEAL. At least not this one. He holds on, rides it out, and waits until Steve goes quiet and still before whispering in his ear once more.

“I love you, babe. I’m not going anywhere.”

  
Steve nods, wraps both hands around one of Danny’s, and lifts it to his lips before kissing each knuckle. When he lets go, he stands and extends a hand to help Danny up, pulling them both to the table containing the salads that were the unfortunate scapegoat to make a long need conversation happen. They sit, eating in silence. Danny doesn’t say a word when Steve pushes the plate away only half finished. He’s never worried about Steve not eating enough, and he’s not going to start now.

Dinners with Danny’s family are a nightly affair during the rest of the visit, and while Danny tries his best to keep the portions from being totally out of control, it’s obvious that Steve’s miserable most nights when they get back to the hotel. He’s pulled up the mask, though, and there’s no getting past it. Questions about how he’s feeling get a grunted “fine, m’fine.” They move to a different hotel, one with functional workout facilities, and Danny does his damndest to ignore the empty bed at five in the morning and the exhaustion in Steve’s eyes. He’s never been so glad to tell his family goodbye and board a flight back to Hawaii. 


	2. Chapter 2

When they’re back in their house, the sound of the ocean drifting in through the open windows, Danny makes the choice to finish what he started. “Can we talk?” he asks. Steve’s eyes are dark, fear deep within them but he nods anyway, shoulders set and back straight. 

Danny takes him by the hand, hauling him out to the lanai and sitting the pair of them in chairs. Looking out over the beach, he speaks quietly, keeping his voice just low enough that Steve has to focus to understand him but not so low that he will be misunderstood. 

“Here’s the thing. I love you. I don’t understand why you have to do this, and I don’t understand what my role here needs to be. But I need you to know that I’m not forcing you into anything. If you really do want to leave this where it is, I won’t mention it again, babe.”

Steve stares in front of him, eyes fixed on some indefinable place on the horizon for what seems an eternity. His rigid posture is utterly out of place in this setting, this place that has always seemed to relax him and bring him back from that place where he thinks he has to be perfectly, absolutely in control. When he finally speaks, Danny has long since given up hope of this conversation going anywhere he wishes it would.

“What you saw, that’s not normal, Danny. It isn’t. I’m not bulimic. It’s not like that. Sometimes, yeah, it’s a little not okay, but I’ve got this under control.”

If Danny was hoping for some sort of confession, some kind of miraculous agreement that it is indeed a problem, that Steve will be willing to admit this is unsafe and seek some means of stopping, it’s over in those few short sentences. Steve’s jaw is set, his shoulders tight, and if Danny has learned anything since their first moments of acquaintance aiming weapons at each other over a battered toolbox, it’s that Steve doesn’t back down. He also knows that it’s better to stay very still, and very quiet until he’s certain Steve is finished speaking, because the man will talk a blue streak when he’s in Commander McGarrett mode, but getting words out of him when he’s just Steve can be like pulling teeth. 

“I need you to not treat me like I’m broken here, Danny. I can’t do that. Can’t watch you watching me like you’re waiting for me to shatter. I know you can’t unsee what you saw. I get that. I get that it’s going to change some things, that you’re not going to be able to pretend you don’t know anymore. But I need you to not make this a thing. I need you to trust me, let me deal on my own here unless I ask you to help. Can you do that?”

Danny’s eyes are making an effort at turning this into a crying, ugly, way too emotional experience and he grits his teeth and blinks hard before he answers. “I can try,” he says, after mulling over a half dozen different options before settling on the one that actually feels honest. 

“Are we good, Danny?” Steve asks, and his voice is completely different, the hardness lost, the frightened vulnerability of that awful night in Jersey back. 

“Yeah babe,” Danny answers without hesitation, reaching over and clamping a hand on Steve’s shoulder, gripping hard. “We’re good, babe. We’re good.” He wishes he believed himself, but there isn’t anything else to say. 

They sit in silence for a while, the only sound the sloshing of the beer in the pair of Longboards that Steve slips back into the house to retrieve at some point. Danny wonders, as he watches Steve take long pulls from the bottle, how exactly having a beer fits into the man’s way of dealing with his weight, or his food, or his control, or whatever it is that makes Steve do the things he does. The resolution he had hoped they might find here in the safety of their home is obviously not coming tonight. He sighs, hoping like hell that he can do what Steve asked and keep his panic and his worry to himself. He’s been at it for long enough that it should be easy, but now that he knows for certain that it’s a pattern of long standing behavior, the worry is ten times worse and the protective nature that makes him a damn good cop threatens to make him an absolutely shitty partner. 

It’s another long night. Steve sleeps fine, but Danny spends most of it wide awake and staring at the ceiling. Morning comes with Steve heading out for a run while Danny spends some quality time with the weights in the garage and the punching bag that hangs from the ceiling. By the time they’re each finished, showered, and dressed for work, the tight knot of worry in Danny’s chest has finally begun to loosen. Steve has been doing this a very long time. As far as he knows, he’s been able to keep a decent hold on himself for most of that period. He can trust the man in warehouses full of people intent on killing them both. He’s trusted him in jungles, on boats, and in too many other situations of mortal peril to count. He’s going to force himself to trust him here, too. The consequence of failing to do so is losing him altogether and that is absolutely not an acceptable outcome. 

It’s another month before Danny feels like he can really breathe properly watching Steve eat. He’s ridiculously self conscious every time the team orders food in. Nothing has changed. Steve eats with the team, orders the same things he always has, and starts every day with a long run or a swim at dawn. Danny has to shake himself to stop the urge to watch him after meals, to track his movements, to follow him if he excuses himself afterwards. It’s exactly what Steve asked him not to do, and every instinct he has is screaming that this isn’t right, that he should be fixing this, that he needs to take better care of Steve, that he has to make this better. He knows he can’t. It doesn’t stop the hollow, aching worry that Steve can’t stop it, either.

After the visit to Jersey, Danny would be happy to never see traditional Italian food again. Lucky for him, it’s not exactly an island delicacy so it’s not often an issue. Pizza, though, that is something that Danny wants to like, but definitely hates. It used to be the presence of evil, nasty pineapple that made him cringe when Chin walked into the office carrying a stack of pies. Now, it’s the split second of worry in Steve’s eyes. They’ve closed another beast of a case, spent some obligatory time at the hospital getting stitched back together, and now they’re back at HQ bolting down slices while the paperwork looms over them all. He’s keeping half an eye on Steve, not purposefully, exactly, but it’s a hard habit to stop. He’s been watching him eat for years now, after all. Pizza is one of those things that Steve tends to bow out of, but tonight there’s no way to pretend he’s not hungry, no excuse about having had a big lunch because they all know that no one ate lunch today.

Four slices in; not that’s he is counting, nope, not at all; he notices that Steve’s looking a little pale. It was a hard case, and all of them are feeling it in some way. Kono’s got a half dozen stitches in one arm, Steve’s got a bit of a concussion going on, and Chin looks like he’s been hit by a truck. Danny’s the one who came out of it the closest to unscathed, and he feels like death. When Steve stands on legs that look obviously shaky to Danny’s too observant eye, he follows him from the room as a matter of course. Steve’s breathing slow and deep, one arm braced against the sink as he splashes water onto his face. 

“You gonna be alright, babe?” Danny asks him. 

Steve stares back at him for a moment, swallows hard, and nods. 

“You don’t look too great, babe,” he presses, knowing that between the concussion and the greasy pizza, nothing good is brewing here. 

Steve bites his lip, his throat working as he breathes slow and deep through his nose. Danny’s weighing his options here and every way he turns it looks bad.

“Need to be sick?” he finally asks.

Steve’s gone even more still, every muscle tensed up as he is obviously fighting the inevitable. Danny swallows a lump in his own throat. No way would Steve be fighting this if he wasn’t trying to prove that everything is fine, that he’s fine, that what happened in Jersey was not what happens all the time. Danny gently tugs him away from the sink, towards a stall. Steve’s shaking his head, dragging his feet, but they both know there’s only one ending here and before long Danny’s guiding him to put his hands on the wall above the toilet, lifting the lid of the thing and hoping like hell this will be over and done with quickly.

“Open your mouth, babe,” Danny says softly, one hand rubbing Steve’s back in a circular pattern he hopes is soothing. The other man’s throat is working frantically, and Danny wants nothing more than to get him home and into bed. “You got a hell of a knock on the head there. You’re making yourself miserable trying to fight this. Sooner you’re done, sooner we can go home and get some rest.”

Steve nods, taking the permission for what it is and giving in to what his body is clearly bent on doing with or without any prodding. Danny stays with him until it’s over, rubbing his back and keeping him upright when he starts to lose his balance. He’s red faced, tear streaked, and shaking hard by the time the last of the heaving’s done with him. Danny grabs some wet paper towels and wipes him down while Steve leans against the wall, looking exhausted and lost.

“Hey, hey now, it’s a concussion. Not the end of the world, babe, you’re fine,” Danny tells him. 

Steve nods, but they both know this is the first time he’s vomited since Jersey and six months is a lot of unspoken progress to be lost. Danny hasn’t forgotten him saying there are things that don’t stay down, period, and he’s pretty sure pizza is a likely contender for that list. He’s definitely not seen the man consume more than a slice in pretty well forever. But he promised not to make this weird, not to go hyper-protective and try to save Steve from himself. He’s turned a blind eye to runs that are way too long for any sane person after a night out with the team. He knows, deep down, that this was what Steve expected to happen and that this is an ugly, scary side to what he can’t quite bring himself to label as Steve’s eating disorder. 

It’s a solid half hour later before he manages to get Steve out of the bathroom and into the Camaro, making quick excuses to the rest of the team about SuperSEAL and his damned concussion that he chose not to admit was kicking his ass. The drive home is long and quiet, Steve keeping his eyes closed against the moving scenery and Danny staring absolutely anywhere but at his partner. When he pulls into the driveway and climbs out of the car, it takes a moment to realize that Steve has only made it as far as opening his door and planting his feet on the ground. He’s got his elbows on his knees and his head hanging low, breathing slow and measured. Danny spares a second to curse before kneeling next to him. 

“Think you can make the head?” he asks.

Steve shakes his head, eyes screwed shut and shoulders lurching up and down as he breathes. His mouth is hanging open now, saliva dripping from his lips as he shudders. He heaves once, twice, nothing but bile and a little spit coming of it before he relaxes and looks up at Danny. “Sonofabitch,” he mutters, and Danny nods his agreement before offering a hand to haul him to his feet.

“Let’s get you lying down so you can sleep this off, babe,” Danny tells him. He’s not going to bring up the elephant that’s staring at him. He’s not going to tell Steve that he’s still proud of him, that this doesn’t mean anything. His resolve holds until he’s got Steve up the stairs, into the bed, and the other man whispers an apology as Danny hands him a pair of aspirin and a glass of tepid water.

“I’m really sorry,” Steve repeats, when Danny hasn’t found his voice after a few beats.

“Jesus, babe, no apologies necessary. Seriously. You’ve had your brain scrambled. Again. Pretty sure the papers they gave us at the hospital have hurling up your guts as a normal consequence. It happens.”

“You know what I mean,” Steve says.

“I do. And we’re not talking about it when you’re about as coherent as a college kid after a rohypnol cocktail. We’re good, babe, we’re still good. Close your eyes and sleep, now. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you,” he tells him, slipping into the bed to wrap himself around Steve and hold him through the tears neither of them is willing to admit are wetting both their faces.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on Tumblr @ Mohini-Musing

They don’t talk about it in the morning. Or the morning after. Or ever. Because it’s firmly lodged in the file of things that are not discussed. Steve is waking up screaming in Pashto half the nights of the week again, and Danny has discovered that he can, in fact, function on three hours of sleep out of every 24 for a remarkably long period of time. It’s knowledge he’s pretty sure he could have lived a long and happy life without. 

Steve is exhausted. It’s obvious in the face that is just a little too hollow, the eyes that are too shadowed, and the hands that shake ever so slightly when he thinks no one is looking. Danny has taken to spending Steve’s morning runs in the garage beating the fire out of the heavy bags in hopes that it will help him keep his tongue in check when all he wants is to scream at his self destructive gorilla of a partner.

It’s on one of dozens of those mornings that his cell rings while he’s pulling his arm back for another brutal swing at the bag. Steve’s voice is shaky, frightened. Danny runs for the Camaro and tears off with lights and sirens for the coordinates Steve gave him. Danny’s ever churning detective brain is screaming loud and clear that this is exactly what happens when you try to ignore the damn near wooly mammoth sized elephant in the living room. 

Steve is exactly where he said he would be, sitting loose limbed and red faced with his back against the side of a not yet open for the day shop. Danny wants to scream at him, to tell him this is what happens when you push yourself harder than any human can possibly stand. Instead, he helps him to his feet, hands over the bottle of water he grabbed on the way out of the garage, and lowers him carefully into the passenger seat of the car.

“Not feeling so good, Danno,” Steve murmurs as they drive. 

“You warn me if you’re carsick, got that big guy?” Danny tells him, trying to keep his tone light. He’s mostly concerned about Steve staying conscious. He swears he can see his pulse bounding from the driver’s seat. 

Steve nods, eyes closed and air conditioning on arctic blast aimed fully at him. He’s dozing when they get to the house, and stumbles as Danny leads him into the living room. Steve grumbles but complies when Danny insists he drink another bottle of water to help him cool down. Once he has, he looks a bit better, though still shaky. He all but growls at Danny when he suggests that maybe a bath would be a better idea than the shower he swears he needs. Rather than open up another line of argument, Danny concedes with the warning that if he hears anything amiss, he’s coming in after him.

It’s not until the pipes have run a little longer than the standard 3 minutes that Danny gives in to the nagging thought that Steve looks like hell and he really should go check on him. The thud of a body hitting the shower floor resounds just as he reaches the landing upstairs. 

Danny knocks the bathroom door out of his way hard enough that he’s probably going to have to patch the wall later, but it doesn’t matter because Steve is unconscious on the floor of the shower under what turns out to be a tepid spray. Danny shuts off the taps and kneels beside him, reaching out to check his pulse and finding that he’s blazing hot. A weak gag comes from Steve’s throat and a dribble of fluid spills from his lips. Danny wrestles him fully onto his side in an effort to keep his airway clear and kicks himself for having left his cell downstairs in the kitchen. He knows it’s probably just a nasty case of heat exhaustion. Steve was clearly aware that he was running too hot if he opted for a cold shower. “Jesus, babe,” Danny mutters as Steve gags again.

Steve’s heartbeat is steady and strong despite all other factors, and Danny settles in to wait until he comes around. When he does, it’s slow and disoriented, a weak punch thrown in Danny’s general direction as he tries to fight off hands he doesn’t realize are there to help him. 

Danny grabs him, wraps arms around his torso and pins his hands in front of them both until Steve’s fully coherent and no longer a hazard to them both. “Hey there, you with me?”

“Think so,” Steve mumbles. “What happened?”

“You, my idiotic friend, damn near gave your fool self heatstroke running god only knows how far this morning.”

“Just six miles,” Steve counters. 

“Is that all? Just six miles in 500% humidity, you dummy?”

“Can you yell at me later?” Steve asks, his face a grayish green as he takes slow, measured breaths. It’s ineffective at best and a moment later he pitches forward and heaves hard, a steady stream of watery bile pouring onto the shower floor. He trembles and coughs through several minutes of dry heaving when he’s emptied out. By the time it’s over he falls listlessly back against Danny, panting for breath and shaking from head to toe.

“M’sorry,” Steve whispers, and Danny kisses the top of his head and tries to ignore the rancid liquid that is now joining the cool water that has long since soaked into his pants. 

“Think we can get you rinsed off?” Danny asks him. 

“Gimme a minute.”

“I’ve got you,” Danny tells him, not sure why but needing to offer some kind of reassurance. 

Steve stays loose limbed and breathing slowly against him for a while before pushing himself upright and reaching for Danny’s shoulder to balance as he tries to stand. He goes ghost pale and sinks back into a crouch almost immediately.

“Still dizzy?” Danny asks him, shifting to grip Steve under both arms to keep him from falling. 

“Spins. Bad.” Steve gets out before he’s cut off by a sick belch. 

“Breathe,” Danny coaches, “It’ll pass. I’m going to hit the water and get you hosed down. Then we’re putting you in bed.”

“Have to, work, can’t go to, bed,” Steve rambles, but his eyes are slipping closed and Danny shakes him to keep him awake. It doesn’t escape him that it’s Sunday and they’re not due to work today.

“Stay with me,” he orders sharply. 

It takes maybe a minute for Danny to rinse the sick from Steve’s body, shuck out of his own pants to rinse himself down, and get a towel around Steve. Getting out of the shower is trickier. Steve is barely in control of his limbs and he’s practically boneless as Danny hauls him into the bedroom and onto the top of the covers. A quick rummage through the dresser comes up with fresh shorts, which take a bit of awkward fumbling to get onto his barely awake partner. He runs to the bathroom and wets a couple hand towels, draping one over Steve’s still too warm forehead and the other over his torso. Then he grabs Steve’s phone from the charging station on the nightstand and makes a call he hopes he won’t regret.

Kono is there a few minutes later and Danny has never been more grateful for the woman’s absurdly fast driving or her liberal use of lights and sirens. He’s also not about to question just why she had multiple bottles of Pedialyte on hand, though he suspects that anyone who passes as much time in the sun on weekends as Kono does is probably no stranger to exactly this sort of situation. Steve spends much of the time Kono checks him over glowering at Danny and insisting that he’s fine, just a little overheated. 

“Steve, you can barely lift your head and you’re practically boiling. That’s more than a little overheated. You need to get fluids down, you’re seriously dehydrated, and don’t give me that look, you know as well as I do even if it comes up it’ll help. I brought Pedialyte, so you’re going to drink it and you’re not going to argue. Then we’re going to work on getting you cooled down before you roast your brain.” 

With that she slips a hand under his head and lifts him up just enough to tip a little of the salty liquid into his mouth. “There you go, slow and steady Boss,” she coaxes, and Danny tries hard not to compare it to the number of times they’ve sat together with Steve breathing through the post nightmare panics. 

Steve chokes down a few ounces before he pulls his head away. Kono puts the bottle on the nightstand and reaches for the trash can Danny brought in from the bathroom earlier. “Just breathe,” she tells Steve, and he takes a long, shuddering breath in before shaking his head and pressing his fist to his lips. The damp towel across his torso rises and falls rapidly as he fights down a couple gags before losing the little bit of liquid in a wet hiccup. 

“You’re alright,” Kono tells him, and Steve stares at her, eyes sad and red rimmed. There are tears on his face and Danny can’t tell if they’re from the vomiting or the compulsive exercise that sparked this morning’s crisis. 

“I’ve got this if you want to go grab some fresh towels and some ice,” Danny cuts in when Steve sniffles after Kono tips more Pedialyte into his mouth. 

Kono looks at him with raised eyebrows, but leaves the room quickly after that. Danny takes up her spot on the edge of the bed, tipping the clear liquid into Steve’s mouth at a slow and steady pace and wiping the tears that keep falling despite Steve’s tightly closed eyes. 

Kono returns with ice packs and freshly dampened towels, tucking them around Steve and opening a second bottle of Pedialyte. “I"m going to head out. Call me if you need anything,” she tells Danny before retreating once more. 

Steve’s shivering as his body temperature finally comes down properly, and Danny cups his forehead in his hand while he brings up the latest round of Pedialyte into the trash bin. 

“Babe?” Danny asks him as he settles back against the pillow again, eyes closed and entire body trembling. “Anything I can do for your stomach here?”

“S’not on purpose,” Steve snaps back, and it’s all Danny can do not to let loose with words he won’t be able to take back about it being not on purpose for once.

“I know that,” he tells him instead. “But if there’s something that might help, I want to do it for you.”

“M’sorry,” Steve murmurs. “Sorry I worry you.”

“Babe, this? This happens. Heat on this island is enough to do it to anyone. I just, I’m worried about you being out there pushing yourself this hard when you’ve got nothing left. I know you can’t help it. But your heart’s not going to put up with this forever, you know?”

“Promised I wouldn’t purge. I’m not purging.” Steve counters.

“Sweetheart. This? This is not okay. This is you killing yourself just as well as you do with your fingers down your throat. You didn’t stop anything. You just switched poisons.”

He regrets the words the moment they’re out of his mouth. But they’ve needed to be said for far too long. If this is what he has to do to keep this strong, beautiful, intense man alive, then this is what has to happen. Jersey is more than a year behind them now, and despite all assurances to the contrary, Steve is no healthier than he was that night in a hotel room. 

Steve looks at him and nods. “I know.”

“If you know, then what do we do from here? I’m trying to trust you. I am, but this is not the way to make me keep staying out of it, Steven.”

“I can’t, Danno. Our job, I can’t go talk to some shrink and tell them I’m a mess. I can’t be a mess, you know that. I can’t.”

“And yet you passed out mid run, passed out again in the shower, and can’t keep so much as an ounce of fluid down because you’re not okay, not even a little bit. Something has to give.”

“I have to work it off. You know that. I told you I have to and you said you would respect that.”

“I respect that you aren’t being purposefully self destructive,” Danny concedes. “That doesn’t mean you aren’t being destructive all the same, babe.”

“There’s not another option,” Steve insists.

“Yeah, that’s the thing babe. There is another option and I’m not going for it. Either we figure something out, or you’re going to push too far and not be able to call for help next time.”

“Okay,” Steve murmurs, shuddering and dragging himself over the trash bin to heave up more clear fluid. He falls back onto the pillow when he’s done, looking up at Danny and letting tears flow freely down a face that has survived torture with less emotional pain than the words he’s about to say. “If you find someone, I’ll talk. Just, can you go with me? I don’t know if I can do it on my own.”

Danny’s shocked, but he’s never been more grateful to hear anything in his life. “Of course I’ll go with you, you Neanderthal,” he tells him, trying to simultaneously not explode in sheer joy and reassure the clearly terrified man in front of him. 

Steve smiles weakly at him, eyes slipping closed. He’s still running a nasty fever, but Danny lets him steal some rest as he goes to rinse the hand towels and change out ice packs. It is precious little progress, but this is the first time Steve’s ever agreed to speak to a soul, and Danny’s more than willing to take it as hope that maybe, just maybe, there is some help to be found in a fight he’s pretty sure they aren’t going to win so much as find some means of declaring détente between Steve and the brutal disease that refuses to let him go.


End file.
